…of the bell

A silent spring wood, a place well hidden from all
a leaf chased by wind, a cloud of sparrows startled
still a peace remains, the dream is quiet for now
a slow drifting boat barely raising a ripple
the sun sinking low throwing down long dark shadows
the silence broken by sudden frantic rattling
the windows trembling in their fragile wooden frames
then from the distance there comes the sound of the bell
as the dream stretches, effortlessly rolls over, reveals a dark face
fear rides in on a cold wind, the bell seems closer
I cannot awaken yet, I cannot recall and I do not wish to know
I dread the quiet, yet I pull it close to me
I thirst for silence, die a little more inside
and strain to hear the bell toll
© Ann Bagnall
2016